


Sick

by Slyboots



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Aged-Up Character(s), Body Horror, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Dark, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Horror, Id Fic, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Institutions, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rating: NC17, Shower Sex, Verbal Humiliation, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slyboots/pseuds/Slyboots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Save water. Shower with a friend. Aren't we friends, Henry?"</p>
<p>The well-and-truly-dead Patrick Hockstetter pays his old friend a visit in Augusta State Mental Hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick

**Author's Note:**

> If you squint hard enough, this is canon-compliant. The italicized lines in parentheses are King’s.

 The bile-yellow tag on Henry’s wrist flapped jauntily in the spray. Through the scummy curtain the counselor watched him, jingling his keys.

“Hurry it up, pal.”

The drain was half-plugged. Six months of soap and hair and waxy jizzum had hardened there into a slimy rat-king. So Henry Bowers stood inch-deep in gray-grimed water, shivering, as chill spatter throbbed over him.

He stood naked before this doll-eyed man. His prick hung limp and stupid. In the vinegary cold his nipples stood erect.

“Hurry it up,” said the counselor. A dead smile, a fish’s smile on a slab, twitched across his face. Through the curtain his waxy features were blurred. “Haven’t got all day, Henry.”

_You can hurry your fat ass right along. You can do the two-step, the jig, the fucking polka. I don’t give a shit what you do._

Henry was eighteen years old. The Augusta State Mental Hospital had not quite knocked the boy out of him.

“Yes, sir,” said Henry.

His tag bobbed merrily. At present he was under Special Observation. He had been under Special Observation for no fewer than twenty-one days. During this time the D Ward’s counselors had passed the solemn duty of Henry Bowers’s care and keeping around like a cum-stained Playboy.

He was very nearly used to it.

He was used to all of it.

Cold water, because hot could scald a man’s skin off his yellowing bones. Shower stalls close and sickly with Lysol. Smiling fishies stamped in puckery rubber on the shower floor, in case Henry got a mind to slip, to break his neck, to spring himself loose—

He was watched perpetually now.

When Henry looked up next, the new counselor was jerking himself off.

One solid leg he’d slung over the other. His fat cock jutted, red at the head, from a dark tangle of hair. Spit slicked it now, and as the counselor squeezed his shaft, he smiled loosely at some private joke.

His sickly gray-green eyes roved over Henry.

Henry stood there, fixed like a beetle on a pin, limp and stupid. The pipes gurgled like sick. Icy water thundered over him.

“Keep going,” said the counselor. “Don’t stop for _me_.”

He spat in his other palm. Tenderly he worked it across his slick cockhead.

Henry found his voice, a dry cracked nasty little voice. A bawl-baby’s voice. “Fuck you. I’ll yell. I’ll yell and you, sir, your ass is gonna—”

“You won’t yell,” said the counselor. He cocked his head. His thumb circled his slit and brushed, bruising-rough, over his ridge. “I won’t tell anybody. Don’t you worry, Henry.”

And Henry knew him.

_(you don’t scare me, Henry)_

Patrick Hockstetter’s dead eyes flashed metallic in the yellow light. His girl’s lips parted red over tobacco-stained teeth as he worked. With every jerk he gasped a little shaky gasp.

This did not surprise Henry overmuch.

_(I’ll put it in my mouth if you want)_

He was older than he’d been. Not much older than eighteen.

_I don’t give a shit what you do, you nutty little faggot,_ thought Henry in a kind of amazement. His mind rushed on without him. His fists curled as tight as Hockstetter’s.

He squatted down, eye-to-eye with Hockstetter. His muscles worked like knots of heat beneath his skin. “Put that goddamn thing back.”

“Or what?”

A dizzy sickness uncoiled in Henry’s belly. “Or I’ll—”

“You killed me, Henry,” said Hockstetter tonelessly. He shifted his bulk. Lacy pink scars split his face down the middle. “You killed me, pal. Dead as a bug in a rug.”

The curtain hissed with spray. Hockstetter’s cock bobbed, slick with spit, flushed and gross.

Henry might have retched.

He shivered, though the greasy heat filled him toe to tip. Sharp-cold water gushed down his back.

“You shitty little liar.”

Hockstetter’s fat lips twitched. “We all float now, Henry. Belch and Vic and me.”

“Don’t talk about them,” said Henry in a still strained voice.

“We float in rivers of shit,” rasped Hockstetter. “Derry’s shit all the way down, pal.” Audibly his hand slapped. His gaze fixed Henry’s. “We eat it and we like it.” His hips jerked forward. Back. Forward. “Sometimes we eat _each other_.”

Through all of this his voice was perfectly blank.

“Put that fucking thing away,” snarled Henry.

They sat a foot or less apart. At this distance Henry could hear Hockstetter’s breathing hitch.

“Say please, Henry.”

Henry’s gut heaved. “I said put it away.”

“Say _sir_ ,” whispered Hockstetter. Sweat trickled down his stubbled jaw. “They put you away, Henry. Away in the looneybin.”

_(fucking-a looneybin)_

“Now you’re in the hole, Henry, and we’re down here with you.”

He released his cock. Precum glistened sick-slick at its tip.

Henry watched in mute

_(I don’t go for that queer stuff)_

horror. Horror, yet he swallowed hard. “Shut up.” His nails dug shallow in his palms. “Shut up or I rip it off, Hockstetter, I swear to Christ.”

He shivered again.

Hockstetter’s boots squeaked on wet tile. He spread his legs wider, thick thighs straining his scrubs. “ _Shut up or I rip it off, Henry._ ”

He giggled, a low hollow soumd.

Henry twitched the curtain aside. He was on his feet now, slip-sliding forward, fists pumping, belly roiling hot and oily—

With a damp whack Hockstetter caught his wrist. His eyes shone, a bright and repulsive chrome-silver. Wetly his jaws clicked and smacked. “I ate up Vic Criss’s asshole. He shat his jizzum into my mouth, mmm-mmm. Jizzum and worms, Henry, the worms crawl in and the worms crawl out, but ooh, you don’t mind when you’re down _there_ —”

All this flowed from him like a river of raw sewage.

Hockstetter flung Henry’s hand aside, throwing Henry off. “Float with me, Henry. Change with me.”

A rusty noise scraped from Henry’s throat. Under the ice-cold water he was sweating. He was, he realized, half-erect.

_(biggest boner I ever saw)_

Hockstetter’s gray-green eyes widened. He tittered. “Eat me, Henry.”

The sick feeling trickled, thick and hot, into Henry’s balls. His cock bobbed up.

“Fuck you,” he said, as if it made a difference. “You don’t talk that shit about Vic. You don’t—”

With a grunt, Hockstetter hauled himself upright. He was shorter than Henry still, shorter and fatter, his gut sagging in his damp scrubs—

— _bloated_ , Henry thought.

Hockstetter’s callused hand, wet-slick-dead, found Henry’s shoulder. Rested there.

Henry’s cock twitched heavily, and another wave of sick went through him.

The air stank of rust, of salty male sweat.

“Bend over, Henry,” said Hockstetter, eyes wide. One half of his face was flushed red; the other was bloodless. “I don’t mind.”

Henry tensed. “I bet you don’t.”

Hockstetter reached for his other shoulder. Spun him ‘round. To this Henry offered only weak resistance. He felt unreal, juddery, tight. His skin prickled and crawled. Between his legs his prick swung merrily.

“That’s a good boy,” panted Hockstetter. His voice rose, and in it Henry heard a slack grin. Something chattered. It might have been Hockstetter’s teeth. “Good boy.”

Gently, gently, his soft belly nestling into the small of Henry’s back (his skin hot through his wet scrubs), he bent Henry forward. Henry’s hands collided with the gritty wall.

“You fucking faggot,” Henry mumbled loosely. His cock, hot-tight-straining, bobbed agreement.

_This is sick sick sick—_

The drain gurgled as Hockstetter yanked his pants down. Henry felt them slip.

And Hockstetter’s cock slid between his thighs, prodding his balls, stiff like something dead.

Hockstetter squealed piglike. His chest hair itched on Henry’s naked back.

_Sick_.

“I bet you like this.” It spilled from him like jizzum. “You fat fucking homo, you—”

“I raped Belch Huggins,” whispered Hockstetter. His hips jerked forward, back, forward spasmodically. “I plugged all his holes, and then I plugged his eyes, ooooh, and we danced down there, Henry, we danced the whiskey tango foxtrot, just ol’ Belch Huggins and Patrick the dancing clown—”

His hands bit down on Henry’s shoulders. And Henry, too, groaned and jerked, his hands slippery on the tile, his balls tight, his prick dancing and oh so hot—

But he heard the sliminess in Hockstetter’s low voice.

“Under the _moonlight_ we fucked, Henry, down in the ol’ dump—”

The water pounded down on them. Henry tensed, and Hockstetter bore down on him, squeezing, his hands sliding low low low over Henry’s chest and belly and slicker, lower—

“Shut up.”

“Don’t talk too loud, Henry,” rasped the dead Patrick Hockstetter. “They’ll hear you. They’ll take you away and pound you, ooooh, into the mattress, and you’ll bite the pillow, Henry, you’ll eat the shit and the worms and you’ll eat my asshole—”

His jaws clicked. He seemed to squirm, and Henry squirmed with him, both of them groaning together, though the hot sick feeling crept over Henry, and Hockstetter’s pudgy white hands found Henry’s hot-hot-hot prick and squeezed light and sweet—

“Save water,” murmured Hockstetter. “Shower with a friend. Aren’t we friends, Henry?”

“Fuck,” breathed Henry.

Revulsion ripped through him. He bucked into Hockstetter’s palm, and Hockstetter squeezed and bucked and giggled.

Hockstetter’s other hand slid over Henry’s face. Pressed over Henry’s mouth.

“Shut your pie hole,” whispered Pennywise the Dancing Clown in Hockstetter’s low repulsive voice. “Dummy up, Henry. Dummy up like you dummied up when I died.”

Henry sucked sweat. His breath caught.

He moaned a little into Hockstetter’s palm.

“Faggot,” said Hockstetter, and he giggled again. Thrust between Henry’s thighs, and _oh_ , Henry groaned and shuddered, bucked against Hockstetter’s other hand, _oh, sick, sick, sick_ —

And all at once he was gushing into Hockstetter’s slick palm. Hockstetter held him steady.

Henry slid forward, leaning into the wall, gasping for thick air. His lungs ached. Everywhere he ached.

At the sucking sound he turned his head. Hockstetter’s mouthparts shone with Henry’s jizzum. He licked his fingers, tongue wiggling, jaws clicking, eyes gleaming chrome. Jizzum ringed his mouth like clown-paint.

A line of sticky web ran from Hockstetter’s limp prick to between Henry’s thighs. Cum dripped from the web onto the floor and onto Henry.

“I come from down below,” squealed Hockstetter, “where dead boys fuck and the shit flows like chocolate, and I come to _fuck_ you, Henry, because we were such good friends—”

His mouthparts twitched. Henry swallowed back a scream.

And all at once he was plain Patrick Hockstetter again, and the jizzum dribbling down Henry’s thighs was warm and wet and human.

“Now you’d better clean that up.” He pushed Henry gently down, tilting his head with a soft hand. Cum swirled in the dank inch of water covering their feet. “You’d better clean that up before they catch us, Henry, pal. Wouldn’t want that.”

“Shit,” moaned Henry. “What are you?”

“I’m your friend,” said Hockstetter softly. He spun Henry ‘round again, pushing him down, until Henry’s terrified eyes were level with Hockstetter’s limp prick. “And I think you’d better clean me up, too.”


End file.
